The Beginning of the End
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: Young Russia wins an important battle against the Golden Horde in 1380, and the end of his time under the Mongol yoke is finally in sight.


[AN: Considering the time period, Russia is referred to as Muscovy in this fic. It's still the same character, Muscovy was just an early Russian state before there was really a Russia as we know it today.]

Muscovy wasn't afraid. He _wasn't._ His knees were only trembling from excitement. If his hands shook around the hilt of his short sword, it was only from exhaustion. It wasn't fear. He had already made up his mind to not be scared any more, not of the Golden Horde or any one else.

His own breath sounded so loud in the silence after the battle. He hated this part, when the field went quiet. He wanted noise, wanted to hear the voices of his people, but the only people Muscovy could see were quiet and still in the mud. They weren't even his own. The vast majority of the bodies he could see were Mongolian. Was this how it felt to be the victor, to look down at your enemy's dead, broken and bloody on the ground?

But any small victory that day had been won by Muscovy's people, not Muscovy himself. Grand Prince Dmitri only allowed him to join in the battle if he promised to stay safely in the back, where someone could hopefully keep an eye on him. Muscovy was still too small to be of much use in a fight, and the fact grated at him. It wasn't fair that was he was older than every man in his nation, and yet he was still no taller than Dmitri's navel. It wasn't fair that his arms couldn't swing anything more than the smallest and lightest of swords, and that even then his blows were awkward and ineffective. He had tried to learn and train himself, but his body was still a child's, and it couldn't keep up. The best he could do with his short sword was defend himself.

No matter how much he wanted it, he wasn't a man yet. Men could lift heavy swords and bravely protect their people. Men weren't scared of the dark and didn't wet the bed or cry easily. Muscovy was guilty of all those things. It wasn't fair that humans got to grow up so fast while Muscovy never seemed to grow at all. He could remember growing older when he was small, remembered his sisters measuring his height against a wall, but he hadn't grown at all since the Golden Horde came...

He had to grow. That was the only solution. He had to get bigger and stronger, and next time he would be the one protecting his people instead of the other way around.

But first he had to find his way back to Dmitri. The prince would probably be angry at Muscovy for wandering away. He certainly hadn't meant to disobey orders, but it was all to easy to get lost during the chaos. The blanketing fog over the battlefield made the going that much harder, but Muscovy pressed on all the same, trying to remember landmarks to keep from getting even more lost.

He wasn't afraid of being lost either. That was the first step to getting big and strong. He had to be brave. He had to ignore the shivering feeling in his chest at the thought of never finding his way back again.

Muscovy's boots splashed into something he didn't care to examine too closely as he continued his trek, squinting and straining his ears for any sign of life and reminding himself every few steps that he wasn't frightened in the least. Finally, faintly, he could make out a shape through the mist, kneeling in the muck and coughing wetly. Muscovy crept closer, but his stomach clenched when the man raised his head. He recognized that face. He could never forget the face of his tormentor of over a hundred years.

The Golden Horde didn't look as strong as Muscovy remembered him. His cheeks were sunken and gray tinged, his armor fitting awkwardly on a too-thin frame.

Muscovy remembered Mongolia, looming like a mountain. He only came to Muscovy's land once, back when he shared the name Kievan Rus with his sisters. After that Mongolia left the Golden Horde to keep the young nation in line, to frighten him into obedience. The Golden Horde had been utterly terrifying then, an unstoppable force Muscovy didn't stand a chance against, barely resembling the sickly figure he had become. But then his eyes snapped up to Muscovy's, and all the old fear rolled back in, as fresh as it had been a hundred years ago.

"_You_," The Golden Horde snarled, lurching to his feet and staggering forward.

Muscovy tried to step back and away, but his legs refused to obey. He was frozen to the spot, unable to even draw a breath.

"You un-...ungrateful _brat_," he rattled, shuffling ever nearer. "After I w-was so...lenient with y-you. I sh-should have cru-crushed you completely from the...the start, like the filthy bu-bug you are."

_Don't be afraid! Don't be scared. This isn't like before. He's sick now. He's weak. He can't hurt you like before. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid!_ Muscovy repeated that mantra over and over in his head, and finally managed to make his leaden legs take a few tiny steps back...but not far enough.

The Golden Horde's hand suddenly lunged out and seized Muscovy by the scarf, and the boy forgot that he wasn't supposed to be frightened. He shrieked and pulled back as the scarf choked him, almost dropping his sword in that moment of terror as he struggled madly. The scarf was coming loose, and the Golden Horde would be able to see Muscovy's neck, marked with scars from his own hands... Panic flashed through his body, white and cold.

"_Let go let go let go LET GO!_"

Muscovy felt a chill breeze against his ruined neck, and would have screamed if his lungs could have pulled in enough air.

"I w-will tell Mongolia about what y-you've done," the Golden Horde spat, using the scarf to pull him closer. "He'll br-bring the entire _empire_ down on your shoulders. You'll learn then. Y-you'll _learn_ not to cross us-!"

Muscovy choked back a terrified sob and thrashed wildly, pulling on his scarf with one hand and thrusting the short sword frantically with the other, not even bothering to look where it landed, and-

He felt the blade sink deeply into flesh.

The world went still, then sprung back into motion a second later. The scarf was abruptly released, and Muscovy's grip on the stuck sword was too weak to keep him from falling back hard on his rump. The Golden Horde choked deeply and vomited dark red. Muscovy's sword was still lodged in his side as he staggered back and away, but the smaller nation hardly noticed. He wanted to hide his neck again, hide everything, and he instinctively curled inward, clutching his scarf tightly. He was vaguely aware of noise and movement outside himself, but it all seemed far away.

How much time passed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And then suddenly someone had their hands on his shoulders, shaking him roughly. "I told you to stay put, Ivan! What are you doing out here? We've been searching for ages, I thought you might have been captured or worse-"

There was a fog in Muscovy's mind, his eyes, his ears. He thought he could hear someone crying from a distance.

"Ivan. _Ivan._ Muscovy, for God's sake, calm down!"

Muscovy sucked in a huge quaking breath, heaved it back out again, repeated the process until his chest stopped feeling like it was about to collapse into itself. The fog was slowly clearing away, enough that he could blink the wet blur out of his eyes and focus on the man in front of him, who still had Muscovy's shoulders in a vice grip. He was pale, most likely from blood loss if the bandages half-hidden by his armor were any indication, utterly filthy from battle, but under the grim it was still Muscovy's Grand Prince Dmitri.

"You were told to stay in the back," Dmitri said sternly. "It was for your own safety."

"Where d-did...the G-Gol..." Muscovy choked on his question. His voice jerked and quivered, refusing to work properly.

"The man you were fighting ran away, if that is what you are trying to ask. I saw him flee with my own eyes. Don't worry. That victory is yours."

Muscovy shook his head mutely. He hadn't been fighting. He had only panicked and landed a lucky blow that toppled the already wounded nation. There was nothing brave or victorious about it.

"You did well today," Dmitri said suddenly, with more kindness than Muscovy had ever heard from him. "You were very brave. We couldn't have won today without your courage."

"W-we won?" Muscovy croaked. He knew the battle had been moving in their favor, but the very notion of defeating the Golden Horde, even in a single battle...it sounded like a dream.

"We did." The prince's laugh was breathless, and Muscovy could see bloodstains on his teeth. "We've defeated them, at least for the moment. Come, that's something to rejoice. Stop crying."

Muscovy dropped his gaze, flushing when he realized that his face was sticky with tears and snot, both still freshly streaming down. He drug his sleeve across his face and sniffed messily, struggling to compose himself. He wanted to be as brave as Dmitri claimed he was, a courageous man instead of a cowardly crybaby, but he wasn't brave at all. He had been utterly terrified the entire time, no matter how hard he tried. Even weakened, the Golden Horde was still frightening to him.

And yet...and yet they had won. His people had fought back against their oppressors and proved they weren't yoked animals that only existed to be used and beaten. And no matter how scared he had been, no matter if it was luck or not, in the end Muscovy had won his first victory against the source of all his nightmares.

"I'm not go-going to b-be sca-a-red of him an-any-mo-more," Muscovy gasped, every syllable a jerking sob. That vow would have sounded grand if he could have stopped crying long enough to say it, but he was too exhausted to rein in his emotions now. Through the blur he felt a hand rest heavy over top his head.

"You won't have to be," his prince assured him. "We will expel them from this land for good one day. You've been brave for so long already. You only need to last a little longer. Just a little longer..."

Historical Notes:  
The Battle of Kulikovo took place on September 8, 1380, and marked the beginning of the downfall of Mongol rule over Russia. The Russians were lead by Dmitri Donskoi, the Grand Prince of Moscow (which at the time was the most powerful of the Russian states, and is often referred to as Muscovy.) Dmitri Donskoi was the first Muscovite prince to directly challenge the Mongols. His victories over them destroyed the myth that the Mongols were invincible and gave people hope that they could be free from the Mongol yoke one day.

The Mongol Empire was the largest contiguous empire in world history, and was divided up into appanages after the death of Genghis Khan. The Golden Horde made up the western parts of the empire, and in 1237 they invaded Kievan Rus' and brought that land under Mongol rule, killing roughly half the population in the process. Although the Mongols were brutally violent, they weren't interested in directly ruling over the Russian lands they conquered, and generally allowed them to rule over themselves so long as they paid tribute. Failure to pay or any kind of disobedience was harshly punished, often through horrific torture. The entire population was basically terrorized and traumatized by the treatment by the Mongols. Mongol domination over Russia is one of the most, if not the most significant events in Russian history.

Although the Russians won that significant battle at Kulikovo, it was far from the end of Mongol rule. They continued to fight to try to bring the Russian lands back in line again, but already the Mongol Empire was starting to fall apart, largely from internal turmoil and division. While the Mongol Empire grew steadily weaker, Russia grew stronger. Finally in 1480, a hundred years after the Battle of Kulikovo, Ivan the Great formally rejected Mongol rule, and at that point the Mongol Empire was too weak to fight back and in the end, had no choice but to give in and let Russia go.


End file.
